


Love (and other Southern Follies)

by Acephalous



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mutual Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-14
Updated: 2020-05-14
Packaged: 2021-03-02 23:28:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,833
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24175120
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Acephalous/pseuds/Acephalous
Summary: Despite his best efforts, Dorian Pavus has fallen in love with the Iron Bull.
Relationships: Iron Bull/Dorian Pavus
Comments: 23
Kudos: 134
Collections: Hurt Comfort Exchange 2020





	Love (and other Southern Follies)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Arsenic](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arsenic/gifts).



> Arsenic your exchange request included touch-starved, pining and found family, I hope you enjoy this!

When Skyhold’s walls come into view Dorian breathes a sigh of relief. From the road the fortress is a dark shape hunched beneath the mountain peaks, and Dorian smiles at the sight of it. His mare pricks her ears at the sight, and she steps forward with renewed energy, sensing the journey’s end. Behind him his escort of Inquisition soldiers, who have grudgingly accompanied him to the Western Approach and back, are breaking out in happy chatter. 

Dorian cannot imagine a more welcome sound than the creaking metal of the portcullis lifting, and the clatter of the horse’s hooves on the courtyard cobblestones as they enter the fortress. For the first time since their departure three weeks prior, some of the tension in his shoulders releases. The journey had been long and tedious, and the Western Approach was a desolate and miserable place, full of bandits, toxic sulphur pits, and Venatori. But the worst of it had been the company: the hostile stares and occasional muttered insults of the Inquisition soldiers who had accompanied him had been a constant, grating irritant. 

He should be thankful, he supposes, as he dismounts from his horse. Trevelyan had at least sent him out on the mission with a dutiful troop of soldiers. They had been disciplined enough to follow his orders, and to not let their distaste for him manifest as anything stronger than palpable scorn and dislike. It’s the sort of small thing that the South has taught he him to appreciate. Not all of the Inquisition’s forces are as professional, particularly some of the Templars. Since joining the Inquisition Dorian has been threatened and spat at often enough to appreciate that this group had done their duty, despite their distrust and dislike of him personally. 

Dorian had taken great pains to appear unaffected by the glares and whispered insults aimed his way, and he dearly hopes the soldiers found his lack of reaction infuriating. But his unperturbed mask had been an effort to maintain and he is as glad to be free of the soldiers as they are no doubt glad to be free of him. 

He gives his horse a parting pat, and hands the reins to one of the stable-hands. The soldiers are departing, many of them greeting friends, with embraces, and laughter. As expected, the only person waiting for Dorian is a messenger who tells Dorian that he’s expected to make his report to the Inquisitor in the war room, immediately. He nods at the messenger, who has already turned away from him, and picks up his pack. Before making his way towards the keep, he takes a moment to look over the crowd in the courtyard, but disappointingly there’s no sign of Bull. Not, he reminds himself, that he has any reason to expect Bull to have missed him, or be waiting for him on his return. He does catch a glimpse of the distinctive red and yellow fabric of Sera’s outfit from the stairway above the courtyard. She disappears in the direction of the Keep, apparently uninterested in greeting Dorian, but at least he’ll have someone to drink with in the tavern when he’s done making his report to the Inquisitor.

He treks up the stairs into Skyhold’s keep. On his way through the main hall he passes Mother Giselle. He makes himself smile at her, he thinks he hit the right level of insincerity and condescension with the expression, given the sour look she shoots him in return. He keeps the smile on his face as he approaches the Templar guarding the door to the war room. 

The woman’s face crinkles with scorn at the sight of him. Dorian casually lights a bit of spell-fire in the palm of his hand, lets it dance along his fingers, just for the petty joy of seeing her jaw clench, fingers twitching like she’s wants to reach for her sword. 

“The Inquisitor is expecting me.” He says cheerfully, and she grudgingly steps aside, lets him pass.

His report is mercifully brief, a quick summary of the disrupted Venatori researchers, and he hands the package of research journals and notes he had liberated from his erstwhile countrymen to Leliana. Trevelyan listens without commenting, then gives him a curt nod of dismissal, already turning towards her advisors to discuss the next issue. 

Dorian leaves her to her work, wending his way up stairs and through the winding corridors that lead to his tiny room. He expects the room to be frigid, but surprisingly, someone has lit a fire in the grate, and the room is starting to warm. It’s a relief, since the misery of the Southern climate is not something Dorian can imagine ever getting used to. He drops his pack on the floor with a sigh, adds some wood to the fire. He starts to remove his travel-stained clothing, only gets as far as throwing his cloak off before his attention is arrested by the sight of a large jar sitting on the room’s little desk. A jar that he knows hadn’t been there when he departed for the Western Approach. The jar is full of frantic movement, small dark forms swarming around the inside of the glass. Warily he steps closer, and notices a slip of paper propped up against the jar. He relaxes when he recognizes Sera’s slanted handwriting:

‘Welcome back! Told you it would work: first one’s for you!’

Below the words, there is a drawing of something, that Dorian decides, after a bit of consideration, is probably meant to be Corypheus being chased by a giant bee. Written hastily below the drawing, like an afterthought, in large letters are the words:

‘FOR THROWING, NOT OPENING!’

He leans forwards eying the swirling mass of enraged bees trapped in the jar. Before he had left Sera had been ranting about the possibilities of bees in jars, but he had assumed she meant some sort of new alchemical concoction, and not a literal glass jar full of actual bees. Which is a lesson, he thinks fondly, in how Sera’s mind works.

A moment later he has the horrifying realization that if Sera had left the jar on the desk, and lit the fireplace, it means she’d been in his rooms. He straightens up quickly, and goes on a careful hunt for whatever prank she’s left behind. He’s familiar enough with her methods that he manages to find the spring-loaded box in his closet after only a short search. He sits on his rickety chair, and spends a few minutes tensely working out how to open the box without triggering the trap. When he eases the lid off, he finds the box is full of a mound of finally ground, glittering silverite. He knows all too well, from bitter past experience, that if the trap had triggered the glittering dust would have covered everything, and been next to impossible to get out of his hair and clothing. He closes the box, now safely disarmed, sets it aside, and continues to check the room. Once he’s satisfied that she’s left nothing further, he changes into clean clothes. Sits at his desk, does his make-up, checks himself over in the mirror carefully.

When he’s satisfied with his appearance he pockets the box, and sweeps out of the room. The sun is starting to set, sending long shadows across the ground, as he heads across the upper courtyard and into the tavern. Despite the chill outside, the tavern is warm, and Sera is drinking at a little table near the stairs. He stops at the bar to secure a tankard of something that passes for a drink in these parts, and heads her way.

When he reaches her, he makes an elaborate bow, “Congratulations on the invention. I’m honoured to be graced with the prototype. Are there any particular instructions for using it?”

“Find a magister. Throw it.” She mimes the action, “Works if you hear someone screaming ‘BEEES’” 

“Truly,” Dorian replies dryly, “You are the great inventor of our times.”

Sera makes a rude gesture at him, while simultaneously kicking a chair out from the table so he can sit.

He takes the seat, and places the box of silverite on the table. “Yours I believe. You’re getting predictable.”

“You found it? Fasta vass.” Her face wrinkles in annoyance.

He grins, leaning back in his chair to survey the rest of the room, “Your Tevene accent’s almost serviceable.”

“Been practicing.” She replies, then adds with a knowing look. “He’s not here.”

Dorian sits backs up, feeling embarrassed at being so obvious. “Who?”

She traces horns in the air with her hands. “Patrol sighted a wyvern nearby, yesterday. Chargers all out hunting it.” She leans forward with a grin, “Should be back anytime though, so soon you can…”

Dorian cuts her off, before she can voice whatever horrifyingly crude thing she is thinking, “I could ask the bard to sing that lovely song about you” he threatens, and then hums a few bars of it for good measure. 

She wrinkles her face at him. “Could throw the jar of bees in your room next time.”

He laughs, relieved that he’s managed to distract her, “I appreciated your forbearance on that count. And how has the life with the illustrious and storied Inquisition been?”

“Killed some demons with Trevelyan. Mostly been stuck here. Wanting to put arrows in all the noble tits. Can’t. Even if they deserve it. Rather have been out with you.”

“The feeling is mutual, I assure you. Your company would have been infinitely preferable.” He thought his tone was light, but he something else must have bled through because Sera gives him a sharp look.

“Soldiers give you trouble?” She asks.

“None,” he replies with a wave of his hand, “they followed every order, and we completed our mission without issue.”

“Blah blah killed some baddies, found magic nonsense. Don’t care.” Sera says. “Did they give you trouble?”

“As though there’s anything those idiots could say to trouble me.” He says dismissively.

He takes a drink from his tankard and avoids her skeptical look. Fortunately, she is distracted by the loud bang of the tavern door being thrown open, and the rush of noise as the Chargers push inside. Bull is at the forefront, striding inside and laughing at something Krem is saying, a cloth sack slung over one shoulder. Dorian feels a flutter in his chest at the sight of Bull, tries to convince himself that it is only simple desire, and nothing deeper. Across the room Bull catches sight of Dorian and his smile gets even broader. Dorian raises his tankard in his direction, as Bull slaps Krem on the back, extracts himself from the Chargers, and heads in Dorian’s direction. 

As Bull approaches Dorian does a surreptitious check for injuries. There’s a long line of claw marks that have raked along his torso, but they’re shallow, and Bull is moving easily, with none of the deliberate nonchalance he uses when he’s pretending he’s not in pain. When he reaches the table he drops the sack on the floor, and sets his axe leaning up against the wall. Dorian watches the play of his muscles, with open appreciation. Bull smirks at him, grabs a chair, sits with his back to the wall.

“You’re back!” Bull says happily as he sits, “How was the Approach?”

Dorian, who has been waiting to divulge this news for weeks, replies casually, “Oh nothing special. Just sand, ruins and more sand. Oh, and we saw a dragon.”

As expected Bull lights up at the news, and demands details. Dorian does his best to describe the beast: the long arch of her neck, the narrow head, and maw full of teeth, the curl of horns, as she had lighted on a promontory of rock above them. The snap of static in the air as he had stood rigid and still below her, the way her roar had vibrated in his chest. The intensity of the wind and sand thrown up when she had taken wing, the thunder of her wingbeats, as she swooped up into the sky. The sheer size of the high dragon, and the weak-kneed feeling of relief when she had flown out of sight, leaving them unscathed. He pauses in his recounting, distracted by the sight of the bag that Bull had dropped beside his chair, which is oozing a dark ichor across the floor.

“Please tell me that’s not full of wyvern bits.”

Bull had been listening, rapt, with his chin resting on his hand. He turns to the sack. “Shit. I was supposed to deliver these straight to Dagna. But I heard you were back, just meant to say hello first.”

Sera leaps up at the mention of Dagna, and snatches the bag. “I’ll take it!” She says eagerly, and is gone before Bull can agree or protest. She does take a moment, once she’s out of Bull’s eyeline, to make a crude gesture at Dorian, with a wink. He rolls his eyes at her.

“Ahh young love.” Dorian says watching her retreat, “Who’s thoughts wouldn’t turn to romance when gifted with wyvern organs?” He’s aiming for sarcasm, realizes as the words leave his mouth that he his tone has landed a little closer to wistful. 

He looks back at Bull, who has a thoughtful look on his face. Dorian puts on his best smile, leans in close, and places a hand on his arm. The South may be a terrible uncultured backwater, but he does appreciate that he can be open about his interest here. Bull smiles at him, but doesn’t seem in a hurry to take Dorian to bed. Instead he says, with every appearance of interest, “How was the mission?” 

Dorian pauses, torn between pushing the evening towards the inevitable conclusion in Bull’s bed, or sitting and talking. It’s disconcerting to realize he had missed Bull himself, and not just sex with Bull. He had longed to hear his terrible puns, and his booming laugh, as much as he had longed for his touch. Dorian has no illusions about his own feelings, he knows that he’s foolishly in love with Bull. It was a probably inevitable, Dorian is very aware of his own stupidity, of how easily his heart gets tangled up, especially at the first hint of kindness. Of course, when Dorian had started this thing with Bull he hadn’t known Bull well enough to realize there was any danger of emotional entanglement. At the time Bull’s offer of casual sex without strings or obligations had seemed like the ideal way to keep the cold of the South at bay. The only saving grace is its not the first time he’s been emotionally attached to someone who has no interest besides the physical. And he’s learned his lessons from when he was younger, knows better than to show his unrequited feelings, knows that all that will get him is loneliness and the end of the sex, which has been quite spectacular. He’s quite familiar with taking what he can get, for as long as he can get it. 

But still Dorian has missed Bull, so he let’s himself be drawn into a conversation about his journey. The strange ruins the Venatori had been investigating, the hints of new leads on old magics. He realizes with some embarrassment that he’s been talking for a long time, without stop, though Bull is just listening, a smile on his lips.

“But it wasn’t my intent to talk your ear off.” Dorian says, “Forgive me. This is just the first day since I departed that I’ve been able to have an actual conversation with anyone.”

“The soldier’s not eloquent enough for you?” Bull asks.

“The soldiers were all convinced I’d cast some terrible magic on them if they spoke more than three words together to me. They were also convinced I was going to murder them in their sleep. Which suggests a feeling of completely unwarranted self-importance on their part. Honestly, if I was going to betray the Inquisition do they really think they’re the critical linchpin I would target?”

Bull’s look of amusement has faded. “Dorian, the soldiers…” he starts

“Oh don’t start,” Dorian sighs, “there was not a single issue, we got the job done. Besides I am more than capable of looking of after myself. I’m just glad to be back. And I flatter myself that I was even missed. I have a gift from Sera to show it.” 

There’s a long pause, before Bull visibly allows himself to be distracted. “A gift?” He says finally.

“A welcome home present.” Dorian replies. “It’s nice to feel appreciated.” He considers for a moment. “I mean the present was bees. But it’s the thought that counts?”

“What’s the thought?”

“Mayhem presumably.”

Bull laughs at that, then grows more serious, and says, “Dorian, about the soldiers...”

But Dorian does not need pity, so he cuts Bull off. He kicks the chair back from the table and stands. “No, enough. I have been on the road for days. I am tired of sitting in this tavern. I am going up to my room to put together some research notes. Unless you can suggest something more entertaining for me to do with my time?”

Bull shrugs, then stands. “I have a few thoughts, if you’d like to come to my room?” He says

Dorian smirks up at him, and follows Bull out of the tavern.

***

Afterwards, while Dorian is still catching his breath, Bull runs a gentle hand down the planes of his back. He lets himself float in the sensation for a moment, before he pushes the feeling of contentment away, slips away from Bulls hand, and gets to his feet. He hisses at the cold of the floor, and the draft from the ragged hole in the roof. He swears a bit to himself, as he tries to find his clothes, where they’ve been flung to far corners of the room in their earlier haste. Behind him he hears Bull stir, and shift in the bed. 

“Dorian,” Bull says, “you could stay.”

Dorian turns and sees that Bull has sat up, and leaned forward, is extending a hand towards him in invitation. Dorian flinches away from the hand, which causes Bull to drop it, and spins away. He locates his robe in the far corner of the room, begins to dress, glad for the distraction of the straps and buckles so that he has an excuse not to look at Bull again

“I’m not up for another round,” Dorian replies shortly as he steps into his boots. 

“I didn’t mean...” Bull hesitates, then says, “It’s cold out. You could stay.”

Dorian runs his fingers through his hair, trying to make it go from disaster to attractively mussed. 

“It’s cold out,” Dorian repeats peevishly because he’s well aware, and the bed, and Bull had been very warm, “And there is a hole in your ceiling, so I am going back to my own room, which has a roof that isn’t open to the sky.” And he stalks out before Bull can think of anything more to say. 

This is the difficulty with the arrangement with Bull, Dorian thinks as he makes his way to his own room. Qunari have no interest or understanding of romantic love, so Bull has no real idea of how their simple arrangement could get tangled with emotion for Dorian. Bull, for all his ability to read people would neither understand nor welcome the feelings that have taken root in Dorian. Nor would Bull be able to comprehend how painful it would be for Dorian to sleep in Bull’s arms and wake in the morning and know it meant nothing more to Bull then that he didn’t want Dorian to be cold when he walked back to his rooms.

***

Dorian pauses to catch his breath at the top of another in the seemingly endless succession of rolling sand dunes that make up the Hissing Wastes. The night air is shockingly cold, given how unbearable the heat of the day had been, while he had tried to catch some sleep before they set off into the sands. In front of him Trevelyan is eyeing the horizon, and checking the rough map the scouts drafted of the rift locations, and the ruins in the area. Dorian is bitterly regretting every bit of his copious expertise in ancient magics, that has led Trevelyan to drag him out on this miserable expedition, despite her personal distrust of him.

Sera crouches beside Trevelyan, fingering the fletching on an arrow, and muttering to herself. Behind them he can hear Bull is making his way slowly up the loose sand slope. He’s hiding it, but Dorian can tell his bad knee is bothering him more than usual, as the shifting sands makes the going difficult. They’ve been at it for hours, with little respite, as they hike through the unforgiving terrain. Twice now they’ve found a rift, fought a bruising batlte against the demons it spat out at them, and watched Trevelyan seal the tear in the veil. Trevelyan’s plan is push through the night to the final rift, and set camp at sunrise to wait out the heat of the day. There are still hours left until dawn, but already Dorian is aching and tired, and he has the copper taste in the back of his throat that means he’s low on mana, and needs to take a lyrium potion or sleep. Normally Dorian would push himself onward, intent on proving himself to Trevelyan but he knows that Bull is exhausted and in pain from his knee, so Dorian tamps down his pride and turns to Trevelyan. 

“Surely we’re not going to continue indefinitely like this?” Dorian whines to her. “I think my blisters have blisters, and I have sand everywhere.”

She gives him an irritated look, but says, “Well if you can’t go any further.” She gestures to a large rocky outcropping a little further on, “We’ll set up camp there, should give us some shade when the sun comes up.”

They make quick work of setting their tents below the outcropping, When its done Bull drops to sit on a rock with a grunt, stretching his bad leg out before him.

“Look at that.” He says softly, looking out over the expanse laid out before them. The sky is black behind the array of brilliant stars, and the sand stretches out in silvery waves on and on to the horizon. But here and there in the dark of the desert there are flickers of light, pinpricks of campfires.

Dorian frowns. “Venatori?”

“Who else?” Trevelyan says, slinging her shield off her back. She frowns out into the night. “Well no more we can do tonight. Looks like they’re far off at least. No fire tonight, hopefully they won’t even know we were here.” 

But that hope is in vain. They haven’t even turned into their tents, are still sitting, and chewing the truly terrible trail rations, when the attack begins. There’s the telltale hiss of loosed arrows and Trevelyan gives a sudden cry of pain. Before he has time to think, Dorian uses the last dregs of his mana to throw a barrier up over everyone. A split second later a wave of flame rushes down on them, but it burns against the protection harmlessly. Dorian spins to his feet, knocking back a lyrium potion, trying frantically to see what they are facing.

Trevelyan is on her knees, cursing, with an arrow jutting out of her right shoulder, and another embedded harmlessly in the sand before her. But the shock only keeps her down for a moment, before she’s surging to her feet, sword drawn in her off hand, right arm hanging useless at her side. The flames have caught on the fabric of the tents, and it lights the night brightly, clearly showing their attackers, in the distinctive robes and armour of the Venatori. 

Dorian feels a rush of scorn that they’ve wasted their moment of surprise with such a poorly coordinated, and badly aimed attack, even as he’s pulling magic into his hands. There’s a pair of archers on the outcrop above them, clearly in view now that the camouflage of the darkness has given way to the rising flames, and a spell caster in the dunes before the camp, flames lighting in his hands as he starts another spell. There’s also a group of heavily armed soldiers rushing them, but Bull has his great ax in his hands, and is off on a wild charge to meet them. Dorian has lost track of Sera in the fray, but he guesses from her positioning before the fight that she’s moved herself to show the enemy marksmen what actual accuracy looks like. So, he spins his back to the outcrop, and stretches his hand out and returns the favour of flame on the enemy spell caster with as much fury as he can. The man’s neglected his own barrier, which is just inexcusably poor practice. The enemy caster screams as the flames catch in his robes, lighting him brightly as he runs in a panic.

There’s a heavy thud beside him, as one of the archers from above drops dead off the outcropping, an arrow in his neck. He calculates the angle of the shot, and pinpoints Sera across the camp, using one of the flaming tents as cover, and he spreads his hand and uses it to spin time a bit around her, sees her motion blur and speed, as she targets the second archer. He has lightning arcing over Bull’s opponents a breath later, just before Bull and Trevelyan reach them. The fight is brutal, and exhilarating, and Dorian throws his magic out with an aggressive precision.

He and Sera and Bull have fought together enough that they’re a coordinated team, which makes the fight sweeter. Neither Sera or Bull flinch from his magic anymore, even when the enemy mage collapses dead in his tracks, and his spirit rises from his corpse, and turns to attack his former allies. Trevelyan is fighting, but with less than abandon than usual without her shield, picking off fighters on the edge of the scrum that surrounds Bull.

Bull is a maelstrom of movement and deadly steel, cleaving a man in half, like its nothing. Sera ducks in a bit closer to the fight, for a moment just as Dorian’s first barrier begins to sputter and die, and it puts her close enough to the fighters that he can throw a new barrier over her, Trevelyan and Bull. The moment it is up she leaps back to a safer distance, firing arrows as she goes. 

They finish the fight quickly enough, and Dorian stands for a moment, before the sickening drop-off of the adrenaline reminds him of just how drained he is, and the nauseous feeling of having pushed his magic too far makes itself known. He turns and spits a mouthful of blood into the sand, wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. He’s not the only one who’s pushed themselves too hard, he notes, as he makes his way to the rest of the group, Trevelyan looks exhausted too. She’s dropped her sword, and is back on her knees, curled forward like she’s badly winded, Sera at her side. Bull is behind them, covered in blood, which would have alarmed Dorian in the past, but now he knows that doesn’t necessarily mean that Bull is hurt. Dorian gives him a careful, evaluating glance as he gets closer, note that most of the blood seems to be spatter from their enemies, and Bull is sporting nothing more than superficial cuts and bruises. 

But then Dorian gets close enough to see Bull’s face, which isn’t grinning with his usual post-battle euphoria. Instead his face his creased with worry, and Dorian can hear the tightness in Sera’s voice, as she murmurs nonsense at Trevelyan. He breaks into a run to them, and sees that Trevelyan is hunching over a deep wound in her abdomen, Sera’s hand black with blood as she tries to help stem the bleeding. 

Dorian is rifling for his potion pouch, while Bull says hopelessly, “Dorian we’re out of healing potions, we used the last at the second rift.” 

Dorian ignores him and throws back a second, ill-advised lyrium potion, drops down beside Trevelyan in the sand. He nudges Sera’s hands away, and, with a brief thought spared in thanks to Vivienne’s exacting but effective tutelage carefully shapes healing magic into the palm of his hand, and sends it into the wound. Trevelyan makes a bitten off sound of pain, but a moment later stops as the pain ebbs.

Dorian pulls his hand away from the sealed wound, then, nodding to Trevelyan’s shoulder, says crisply, “I’ll need the arrow out for the next bit.” 

He moves to allow Bull to brace Trevelyan while Sera rips the arrow in her shoulder free with one effective movement. Dorian places his hand over the fresh flood of blood, finds the very last remnants of his strength and pushes healing into the wound at least enough to stop the bleeding. After he is done, he braces himself on his hands in the sand, coughs up some more blood, and pants for a bit, until the world stops spinning. When he’s recovered enough to look up Sera has helped Trevelyan get her injured arm in a make-shift sling, and the Inquisitor is hesitatingly getting to her feet. 

“Well I can stand,” she says grimly, when she makes it upright. “and if I can stand, I can walk. What about you Dorian?”

He looks up at her blearily. “Please tell me you don’t want to go back to traipsing over the damn desert.”

“We need to move, get back to a defended Inquisition camp.” She replies, “That was a planned ambush, we’re lucky they weren’t more competent. But that fight was loud, and well lit. Every enemy for miles around knows exactly where to find us.”

“They were trying to take you down Boss.” Bull says. 

“Obviously.” She replies, adjusting her sling. “Probably say the light from the rifts go out, thought they could rid themselves of me. Dorian?”

He staggers to feet, which makes the world spin around him for a moment, but he stays up. “A walk under the stars? How delightful.”

They don’t bother trying to salvage anything from the burned remains of the camp, just grimly begin to make their way back towards the defended camp they had departed from less than 12 hours ago. Sera is ranging ahead and behind keeping an eye out for trouble. Bull is staying close to Trevelyan and Dorian, looking torn about who he is more concerned about. Dorian would like to feel insulted by that, the Inquisitor had suffered what should have been a mortal wound and she had not had nearly enough healing for the extent of the damage. But the truth is Dorian is finding it increasingly hard to keep moving, and this sand is an absolute nightmare to slog through. 

“My dear Inquisitor,” he says to Trevelyan, “if I ever complain about being sent on a mission somewhere cold and snowy again, feel free to remind me of this misadventure.”

She chuckles, but it turns into a bitten off sound of pain.

When Dorian has attention to spare from his efforts to stay upright, he watches Bull, who’s earlier limp is becoming more and more pronounced. Dorian suspects he had twisted the knee badly in the fight, thinks he remembers the moment, a lunge for one of the soldiers, betrayed by the shift of the sand, and a brief stagger, before he had recovered and taken the soldier’s head off. 

The worry about how much pain Bull is in, and how much this forced march will exacerbate it, makes Dorian stop paying attention to his own footing for a moment, and he staggers. He would have fallen, but Bull has caught his arm, and Dorian falls against him for a moment. Without really thinking about it he finds the very last flicker of his magic, and puts the tiniest bit of energy he has left towards Bull, the swelling in his braced knee. There’s little too be done for the old injury, but Vivienne had said helping with the inflammation should help with the pain. He feels the magic take, though casting it causes a sharp surge of pain in Dorian’s chest, and he can feel the wet trickl of blood from his nose at the effort. 

Bull jerks away from him at the feel of the healing spell. Fortunately, Dorian has his feet back under him, so he doesn’t fall as Bull says sharply, “Don’t. I’m fine.”

Dorian makes an annoyed sound, wipes the blood from his face with the back of his hand, says coldly, “No need to worry that’s all I’ve got. I didn’t want you slowing us down.” 

He makes himself ignore Bull after that, and focuses on moving forward.

***

When Dorian wakes the next morning, it takes him a while to remember why he feels so terrible. Every muscle hurts, and he has that terrible ache in his chest and his head from having pushed his magic far beyond where he should have. He barely remembers the tail end of the stumble back to the Inquisition camp through the haze of exhaustion, though he does remember returning to the camp well after dawn. He has a fuzzy memory of Bull shepherding him to a tent, and helping Dorian get his boots off before letting him collapse into his bedroll. He also has an impression of a hand gently stroking the hair from his face before he fell asleep, but he pushes that off as a strange dream in his exhausted state. Dorian briefly considers trying to sleep some more, but he’s also aware of how ravenously hungry he is. 

He drags himself out of the tent, and into the night-air. He heads straight to the cooking fire, and the pot of stew that’s been set over it. He devours two helpings of stew with a single-minded intensity, and is contemplating a third helping when a scout appears at his elbow.

“Inquisitor wants you.” She says, nodding up towards the top of a sand dune, where he can make out several figures, including the distinctive shape of Bull’s horns in the gloom. With a sigh he gets up and makes his way up to them. Trevelyan is standing looking out into the night with Bull on her right and a Templar on her left. The templar is speaking intently to her, but he breaks off when Dorian approaches. Trevelyan turns to Dorian with a nod, and Dorian can see that she’s moving without pain, looks like she’s had an ample amount of healing from more qualified workers than Dorian, which is a relief. 

“Thank you Orrek, but I see no evidence that the Venatori had inside information for their little ambush.” she says to the Templar. “If you can organize the soldiers, I’ll be with you momentarily. Orrek looks mulish for a moment, but he gives her a crisp salute and walks past Dorian. He gives Dorian a vicious glare as he goes by. Dorian gives him bemused look in return. 

“He thinks someone sold you out?” Dorian enquires. Bull shifts a little beside her.

“Just idle speculation,” She says with a shake of her head. “Nothing I’m going to give anymore thought. I’m glad you’re finally up.”

Dorian winces, “Apologies…”

She cuts him off before he can continue: “I’m not looking for an apology for exhausting yourself while saving my life. I was only worried I wouldn’t get a chance to thank you before we ride out.”

“I can be ready to ride.” He replies automatically. 

She gives a laugh at that. “No, absolutely not. I’m going to take a large contingent of soldiers and ride for that last rift, get it closed, and then we are all riding for home. I’ll leave a group of soldiers to deal with the rest of this nonsense.” She makes a gesture that suggest the nonsense in question encompasses the entirety of the Wastes, and everything in it. When she catches the look on his face she adds, “Don’t look so disappointed, it’s terrible out there, remember? Bull’s staying back too, and I think Sera’s still sleeping. I would be sleeping too if anyone else could seal the damn rift. I only called you over because I wanted to say thank you for your aid last night.”

Dorian shrugs, not quite sure how to deal with this agreeable version of Trevelyan. “Well I could hardly sit back and let the Herald of Andraste bleed out could I?”

She grins and claps him on the shoulder, with a force that makes Dorian stagger, and shuts him up in shock, since this is friendlier than she’s ever been with him. He turns to watch her head down to the waiting soldiers. Dorian and Bull stand in silence, as she mounts up and rides out of the camp at the head of the column of fighters. 

“Who does Templar Orrek think betrayed our Lady Inquisitor?” Dorian ask Bull.

“He was just stirring trouble. Trevelyan doesn’t take it seriously.” 

Dorian considers the evasion for a moment. “He thinks it was me.” He states flatly.

Bull winces. “Dorian…” he starts, in a gentle tone. Dorian waves a hand at him.  
“It’s not unexpected, and he’s hardly the first.” Dorian says. “Don’t trouble yourself about it.”

“No one who knows you thinks you’re anything but loyal.” Bull’s says intently.

“I’m well aware of my own qualities.” Dorian looks at Bull. “It doesn’t worry me what anyone else thinks.” It’s more than a bit of a lie, but Bull lets it slide. They stare out over the desert for a while longer, in silence.

“I wanted to say thanks too.” Bull says at last. “For helping with my knee. I think I wasn’t very gracious about it in the moment.” He has a wry smile on his face, “I’m not used to people being able to tell when I’m hiding that it hurts. Or for there being much that actually helps the knee.”

“Of course it helped,” Dorian says sourly, “I didn’t spend all that time learning that bit of magic from Vivienne for it not to help. I’m just glad I somehow learned enough to also stop some of the bleeding from a gut wound honestly.” 

Bull is looking at him, for too long, and Dorian replays his words in his mind, and winces, realizes he’s perhaps revealed too much. 

“So it is a new trick.” Bull says, slow and considering. “Thought so. And you picked it up for my knee? Look, I just didn’t want you to hurt yourself for my sake.”

Dorian exhales slowly. He’s been too obvious he thinks. Even Bull, without the cultural context of romance, is going to realize how Dorian feels about him if Dorian keeps this up. Dorian can’t bear the pity, nor the inevitable end to their liaison that will come when Bull does figure out how Dorian feels. Dorian takes a moment to hate himself, and his heart and all his folly. He is exhausted, and he hates this conversation. Still, a traitorous part of him wants to lean against Bull, have Bull’s arms around him for a moment, so he can rest. 

But he keeps his self-control, and says: “If it bothers you that much I won’t do it again.” He turns on his heel and makes his way back to his tent. 

***

Safely back in Skyhold, Dorian sits at the desk in his room, and pulls out a sheet of paper he has carried with him all the way from Tevinter. On it, a list of three names, each one a fine scions of some of Minrathous’s most noble houses. They were his peers, before he fled his homeland. Years ago, when he was young and foolish, he might have even called them friends. They are Venatori now, all of them. 

He sits with the sheet of paper for a long time, touches the letters of the names. He has kept this information to himself for a long time. He had told himself it was because Trevelyan did not trust him, and wouldn’t pay any heed to information he provided. But since that night in the Wastes he has gained her trust, yet still he hesitates. 

These Venatori are the worst parts of his homeland, and the thought of them leaves him with a sour feeling in the pit of his stomach, this twisted vision of what his country’s ambition could be set to. But he remembers too, what they were like before, they were young and foolish together and thought the whole world was at their feet. Particularly remembers one of them: Julius, with his brilliant mind, and his clever spells, remembers how gracefully he had danced, how he had laughed when he was drunk. Julius had been dangerous then, and he’ll only have grown more so now. Dorian doesn’t feel regret at the thought of hunting him down, not quite. After all, Julius made his choices, just as Dorian has made his. Still though, some deep part of Dorian wonders how much of his own choices are really choices. He wonders in his darker hours what kind of decisions he would have made had he not been forced to confront what sort of man was hiding behind his father’s high-minded rhetoric. What would have become of him if he hadn’t been forced to flee his home, and instead had spent a few more years trying to twist and break himself until he matched the perfect image he was meant to embody. He wants to think he would have seen the same set of wrongs, made the same set of choices, Wants to believe he would have ended here in Skyhold, fighting this fight even if by a different path. But he can’t be certain, and the thought gnaws at him. 

He let’s himself mope for a while longer. Then he takes the piece of paper, and goes to request a meeting with Trevelyan. She listens to him in the war room, as he lays out his case for the risk posed by his former compatriots. 

“What are you proposing?” Trevelyan asks when he’s finished.

“That we hunt them down. They’re dangerous, the Inquisition’s efforts would be much helped if they were dead” Dorian says as coldly as he can. “I’m happy to take the lead, if you’ll give me some support.”

“Dangerous?” She asks, with a quick glance at Leliana who nods a confirmation. “Alright, I’ll let you deal with it then. I’ll notify you when we can spare some resources.”

After the audience he feels a deep and unsettled restlessness. He heads out into the courtyard, intent on the tavern, planning on getting a bottle to bring back to his rooms to nurse his unease with. But he hears a whoop from the training grounds, and finds his feet taking him away from the tavern, and towards the training ground. He leans against a wall, and watches Bull and his Chargers spar and work through drills. He thinks he’s gone unnoticed but when they pause for a break Bull turns towards him, his face lighting with a smile. The warmth in his eye makes the lingering sadness starts to fade from Dorian. 

Bull comes to his side, yelling over his shoulder at Krem to take over. There’s a set of good-natured jeers from the Chargers, which Bull waves off cheerfully and Dorian pretends not to hear. When Bull gets close enough to get a good look at his face, he hesitates. 

“You alright?”

“Long day,” Dorian dodges the question, thinks from the flicker of doubt that runs across Bull’s face that he notices the evasion, “needed a distraction. It’s going to be you or the tavern.”

Bull grin gets wider, and they make their way to Bull’s room. As soon as they’re through the door, Dorian surges up to kiss him, and Bull leans down to him. Dorian let’s the painful memories he was holding go, at least for the glorious time being. Bull’s touch burns away any thought of anything but the present. 

When they’re done, and Dorian has regretfully disentangled himself from Bull, and gotten himself clothed again, Bull stops him at the door for another kiss. Then he hands Dorian a small rectangular package out from the bedside table, roughly wrapped.

“For you.” Bull says, watching his face.

Dorian takes the package uncertainly, unravels the cloth wrapped around it. It’s a book of old Tevinter fairy tales. Dorian stares down at it. He had mentioned how he had enjoyed these old tales to Bull, he dimly remembers, months ago. Well before his mission to the Western Approach. He doesn’t know where Bull would have gotten this, it must have taken some careful thought and planning.

Dorian hates the gesture, with a sudden fierce rage. He doesn’t know how he can ever be expected to find his balance with this casual thing with Bull, when Bull keeps making gestures that Dorian dearly wishes he could read as romantic. The anger goes as quickly as it came though, Dorian can hardly blame Bull for Dorian’s inability to keep his heart in check. 

There’s no way graceful to refuse the gift, so Dorian pockets the book with a murmured thanks. He kisses Bull again, then turns on his heel and leaves. He tries to forget the hint of something unhappy and dissatisfied in Bull’s eye when he’d accepted the gift, as though he’d noticed Dorian’s reaction was less than pleased. 

***

It doesn’t take long for Leliana’s agents to locate the first of the Venatori on Dorian’s list: Julius and his cronies have holed up deep in the Hinterlands. Trevelyan sends Dorian out with a small company of soldiers led by Templar Orrek to hunt him down. Bull and Sera have ridden out with the party as well. Dorian isn’t entirely sure that they have been officially assigned to this little venture, Trevelyan made no mention of them. Yet when the time had come to depart Skyhold the two of them had been there mingling with the waiting soldiers, packed and ready to ride. 

The other members of the party joke and chatter among themselves, and for the first few hours of the journey Dorian rides ahead of the group in a pocket of silence. Orrek and his soldiers are as unwilling to speak to Dorian as he had expected. Bull and Sera had taken the hint of his monosyllabic responses and let him to brood alone, and riding further back and keeping one another company. After a while Sera spurs her horse up beside him. 

“Bull wants to know what kind of gifts you liiiike.” She sing-songs at him. 

That draws him out of his thoughts. “What? Why on earth would he ask you that” he risks a glance over his shoulder, but Bull is safely out of earshot, his horns visible as he chats to Orrek.

“Said he got you a book, but it made you sad. But the gift I got you made you happy.” 

Dorian takes a moment to think through that.

“The only gift you’ve ever given me is a jar full of irate bees.” 

Sera starts to cackle. 

“Sera. Please tell me you did not tell him I want a present made of bees.” 

But she’s spurring her horse on ahead, ignoring him as he yells after her. After a second he decides shrieking after her isn’t dignified. After a second more he realizes that he’s smiling to himself. 

***

They find Julius and his lackeys easily enough. Dispatching them is a harder task. The ensuing fight is a drawn out, nasty affair, but they are victorious in the end, with Julius the last to fall. After the fight, they return to camp, and Dorian sits in his tent and stares at the blood on his hands. He wonders if it is Julius’s. It could be: after all, Dorian, out of mana and forced into close quarters by the flow of the fight, had killed the man by driving the blade of his staff deep into Julius’s throat. And after he had needed to prop his foot on the dead man’s shoulder to get his staff blade free from where it had gone straight through the throat and lodged against the spine. He had stood there after and stared down at the gaping wound that removing his staff blade had left. Had stared at the wound, and the blood, the glassy, staring eyes, those ridiculous Venatori robes. He’s not sure how long he had stood there, before Bull had been at his side, harrying him away from the corpse, gently encouraging him to drink a potion for a deep wound in his arm that Dorian doesn’t remember receiving. The blood from the injury had soaked through his robe and run down his arm, so the blood on his hands might very well be his own.. Or one of the other enemies who had fallen in the fight. Still, Dorian can’t quite shake the idea that the blood, which is dark, dried, and caked under his fingernails is Julius’s.

Somehow Dorian had thought that the fight would somehow clarify things for him. Would show him what had been left in Julius of the man that Dorian used to know. He had seen Julius’s eyes, just before he had used the blade of his staff to end his life, but he has no idea how to read the emotion in them, other than a desperate, animal fear. But perhaps that shouldn’t be surprising, he’s not even sure he knows what he was feeling in the moment, other than the driving clarity of trying to survive and triumph. But then the surge of adrenaline in the midst of a fight always makes things clean and simple. Only afterwards do the complications creep back, and he is left with the same questions as before the fight. 

When they had been younger Julius had been very good with controlling lightning. At parties he had been charming and well liked. He had been the very image of the best of the Magisterium had to offer. He had decided, apparently, that the best way to raise Tevinter to its former glory was by being complicit in the end of the world. And Dorian had killed him, and isn’t any closer to knowing what had led him to those choices.

Gradually Dorian comes back to himself, realizes he has been sitting in the tent for a very long time. He finally forces himself to look away from his hands, to leave the tent. Outside the last of the colours of sunset are dying against the horizon, half hidden by the branches of the copse of trees surrounding the camp. Near Dorian’s tent Bull is seated, bent over his axe, Sera at his side, checking over her stash of potions and flasks. They both look up sharply when Dorian emerges from the tent, but Dorian ignores them, not feeling up to weathering Bull’s sympathy, or Sera’s aggressive sense of humour. Instead he goes towards the fire, where the rest of the soldiers have congregated. He has a vague sense of being cold, thinks he would like to sit for a bit, and warm himself by the flames. Would like to sit among the bubble of voices and not think of the dead man anymore. But Templar Orrek and his soldiers stop speaking as he approaches, their heads turning to stare at him with hostile expressions. Dorian exhales, realizes that he was the topic of their conversation. His normal course of action would be to ignore the fools, but he is so very tired of constantly pretending he doesn’t feel the sting of the insults, of hoping that at some point he will do something to convince these people he is an ally.

“If you have something to say to me, perhaps the brave soldiers of the Inquisition could say it to my face.” His tone is as arrogant as he can make it, and he hears his own voice as if from a great distance.

The tension in the silence ratchets up, but none of them speak. “Not a word,” he sneers at them, “how surprising.” He begins to turn away, but then Orrek is getting to his feet, hatred in his eyes.

“Oh that’s surprising,” Dorian says, “you’re not all cowards.”

“We were just wondering how long before you turn on us, like you turned on your old friends. You may have fooled the Herald, but we know what you are.” Orrek’s voice is full of loathing.

Dorian isn’t stupid, knows the Templar is baiting him into doing something stupid. Wonder how many times he’s tried this trick on the mages in his Circle, how hard he had to push before they snapped. Harder than this probably, but Dorian isn’t a cowed Southern mage, and he has blood on his hands, the blood of someone he used to think of as a friend. 

“And what exactly am I?” Dorian asks.

“A traitor,” Orrek spits, hand on the hilt of his sword, “a snake, a blood mage, and a danger that needs to be stopped.”

Dorian supposes the smart move would be to turn and walk away. But Dorian wants, very badly, that cold clarity of battle again, even if it proves them right, that he’s not trustworthy, that he’ll turn on them at the first provocation. So he draws a flicker of magic into his hand. Forms it into a flame that dances along his blood-stained fingers, and grins at Orrek.

“And who’s going to stop me?” He asks sweetly, watching the soldiers reach for their weapons, start to get to their feet, letting the flame in his hand grow brighter.

Orrek grins, and all the soldier’s around the fire are reaching for their weapons. Dorian’s badly outnumbered, and these soldiers are led by a templar, and are all used to fighting mages. But still he thinks, he’ll make them regret picking this fight.

Dorian sees the great bulk of Bull moving out of the corner of his eye, and re-evaluates his odds lower. He’s not going to turn his magic on Bull. He supposes he’ll thank Bull later, once he’s been wrestled down, for pulling him from this fight, but in the moment all he can feel is a pang of betrayal. But Bull isn’t rushing him, just moving steadily but swiftly, full of enough menace and purpose that the soldiers and Orrek are turning to look at him, then taking hurried steps back as Bull puts himself between Orrek and Dorian. 

Bull looks at Orrek and says “For your sake, let’s not. You will regret it. Go back to your tent. Cool your head.” His booming voice is stripped of anything even remotely resembling friendliness, and it cuts through the night air.

There’s no mistaking the way Bull is coiled for action, any idiot could see it. Even an idiot like Orrek apparently, because he deflates, and backs down. 

He says: “I’m watching you ‘Vint.” But the threat lacks much force given that he has to say it from the other side of Bull, who clearly has no intention of letting him anywhere near Dorian. Orrek turns away, heads for his tent. Once he’s departed there’s a few beats of uneasy silence from the other soldiers. 

Bull lets the tension build, then says flatly, “Even if he was on his own it would have been a bad idea. But we’re watching his back.” He glares at the soldiers, then says, “You coming down sometime tonight, Sera?”

There’s a flicker of movement up in the trees and Sera emerges from the gloom, perched on gnarled tree branch. Her bow’s out, she’s got three arrows notched between her fingers. She returns the arrows to her quiver, and the bow to her back, then drops out of the tree, landing silently. Her face is set and angry, and she gives each of the soldier’s a cold look in turn, before she stalks away. Dorian suspects the soldiers are remembering her devastating accuracy with her bow in the fight earlier. There’s certainly a ripple of unease, and the last of the fighting tension leaves the soldiers. Satisfied Bull turns to say something to Dorian, and Dorian finds he can’t stand the thought of Bull turning that same voice on him and telling him to stand down. So he spins away and stalks off, through the trees and to the little stream near the camp. 

Orrek’s words ring in his ears: _traitor, how long beforel you turn on us_. And maybe he was right, Dorian certainly had been ready to turn on the Inquisition’s own soldiers for a minute there. Because they said something warranted to him. Told him he had turned on his countrymen. And isn’t that exactly what he has done.  
He sinks down beside the stream, and scrubs at the blood on his hands, though the water is frigid, and he can’t see what he’s doing in the darkness. There’s a crack of a branch behind him and he spins up and to his feet, a crackle of flame on his fingers. But it’s only Bull, hands spread, a cloak thrown over one arm, one foot placed deliberately on a broken branch. Bull looks hesitant like he’s not quite sure if Dorian is going to chase him off. Dorian know he should tell him his presence is unwanted. Hhe feels moments from cracking to pieces, he shouldn’t let anyone see this. 

But he’s so tired, and he just wants someone to look at him kindly for a bit. So he sinks back down on the rocky ground by the stream, goes back to trying to get his hands clean. Bull kneels down beside him, with an awkward movement to accommodate his knee. Doesn’t say anything, just takes Dorian’s hands, gently pulls them out of the water. Holds them for a moment. Then wraps the cloak that he’s brought around Dorian’s shoulders. Dorian realizes, distantly that he’s shaking, though he doesn’t feel cold. When he doesn’t move, Bull, after a long hesitant moment, wraps an arm around his shoulders. Pulls him close. Dorian means to pull away, this isn’t the sort of thing he and Bull do, but instead he finds himself turning into Bull’s embrace. Suddenly he’s crying, quietly, his face turned against Bull’s broad shoulder. Bull’s other hand comes up, pets down Dorian’s back. When the crying spell is finally over Dorian stays as he is. Just breathes for a while. He feels safe, and protected, and wants to soak in that feeling for as long as possible. Gradually though, reality intrudes, and his mind clears, returns back from the distant place his thoughts have been since the fight,. He realizes that Bull didn’t follow him out to a secluded spot to be cried on. 

He pulls away a little, wipes his face. “I suppose we should find somewhere less rocky if you want to fuck.”

Bull frowns, the gentle hand on Dorian’s back stilling. Says gently, “Not what I’m here for Dorian.” 

Dorian feels a hot surge of embarrassment. He pulls away, and gets to his feet.

“Well then I don’t know why you’re here.” Dorian says. 

Bull is still kneeling, in a way that’s probably playing havoc with his bad knee. He reaches his hand out for Dorian, “It’s ok, we can just sit until you’re ready to go back. Whatever you need, Kadan.” 

The gentleness of his tone goes through Dorian like a knife, “Stop. Just stop. This isn’t what I want from you.” Dorian says

“Ok.” Bull replies, still gently. “just tell me what you need.” 

Dorian shuts his eyes. Opens them again, says calmly, “There is only one thing I could possibly want from you. And that is for you to stick to our agreement about our arrangement. You keep twisting it, with gifts and trying to get me to stay and…” Dorian makes a frustrated gesture at Bull, still kneeling before him. “If you can’t do that then perhaps you should stay away from me.”

There’s a brief moment when hurt flickers across Bulls’ face, but its gone in an instant. 

“Right.” Bull says. “Whatever you want. Let’s head back then.”

***

Dorian doesn’t speak to Bull all the long ride back to Skyhold. He is somewhat ashamed of his words, the way he had lashed out in anger, even if he had been speaking the truth. It’s not Bull’s fault that Dorian is desperate for a love that Bull can’t give him. He hadn’t realized that Bull would stay away from him so carefully, but it is what Dorian asked him to do, so he supposes he has no room to complain. It doesn’t stop him from missing Bull quite desperately though, which is another emotion to add to the morass churning in his gut. 

He has plenty of time to stew, Orrek and the other soldiers are giving Dorian the widest possibly berth after the events of the previous night, and there’s an uneasy silence over the entire group, even from Sera, who has stuck to Dorian’s side like a burr. Normally her silence would make Dorian concerned she’s plotting a prank, but in the current circumstances he’s just glad for the company.

They return to Skyhold without incident, and in the days that follow Dorian throws himself back into his research. It helps to stem the feeling of loss from where Bull is still keeping away from him. Dorian is hunched over his work in the library one morning when Sera appears, jerking the book he was reading out of his hands. 

“Did you hear?” She says with a grin, leafing roughing through the old tome, before he manages to snatch it back from her. “That Templar? Orrek? And his soldier friends? All got locked in the armoury. And somehow the armoury? Was full of bees.”

He looks at her, and doesn’t bother to fight the smile. Sera tries to looks innocent, which is one of the least convincing things Dorian has ever seen. 

“I wonder how that happened.” Dorian deadpans.

“That’s a mystery. We’ll never know.” Sera replies. After a pause she adds. “I have more bees though. You want me to throw some at Bull?”

“Bull? Why on earth would you throw them at Bull?”

“Something happened that night at camp.” Sera replies, “You don’t have to say what. But he’s all shifty and guilty looking, and keeps asking about you. Says you don’t want to talk to him. And you’ve been sad.” She pulls a jar of bees out of her satchel, offers it to Dorian. “Bees might help?”

“Put that away.” He hisses at her, “He didn’t do anything wrong, I’m the one at fault.”

“No bees?” Sera asks sadly.

“No bees.” He replies firmly. “But I will go talk to him.”

She gives a put-upon sigh, but returns the jar to her bag.

***

Dorian finds Bull in the tavern, holding court among his Chargers. Bull stands as soon as Dorian catches his eye, follows him out to a secluded corner of the courtyard. He has a deeply hesitant look on his face when Dorian turns to him. Dorian winces at the sight.

“I owe you an apology,” Dorian says, “I was unkind when we spoke last. You didn’t deserve it, I was lashing out. It wasn’t my intent to chase you away, and I’ve certainly missed you. I would dearly like it if we could return to what we were before.”

Bull’s face has relaxed, and he shrugs easily, “Whatever you need, you don’t have to explain yourself to me. I shouldn’t have pushed.”

It irks Dorian, he remembers Bull kneeling by the stream, looking up at Dorian with hurt on his face. He wishes he wouldn’t be so quick to forgive, would demand an explanation. But of course, he won’t push, because that not something he thinks they owe one another. But Dorian wants Bull to understand, so he tries to explain.

“I was angry at myself, for showing that much emotion in front of you. And I was upset, because I knew the Venatori I had killed. And I can’t stop wondering if I find myself fighting alongside the Inquisition only because I was driven that way by circumstance. And that perhaps if I hadn’t been forced here I would be on the other side of all this.” 

Bull, says with furrowed brow. “That’s not true. You still made hard choices, otherwise you would have let your homeland and kept running, and not gone anywhere near this fight. Sometimes you don’t recognize you’re making hard choices in the moment, but they’re still part of the person you build yourself into.”

Dorian, waves his objections away. “I’m not looking for reassurance. I just wanted you to understand.”

Bull smiles at him.

***

Dorian and Bull pick up where they left off. Bull is careful now, he never asks Dorian to stay after they fuck, or touches him when they’re not having sex. Never tries to give him anything. They don’t speak much anymore though, there’s no more lingering conversations in the tavern. It should make it easier for Dorian, but it doesn’t, not in the way he had hoped. He is hopelessly in love with Bull, and it seems that nothing is going to change that, or make it less painful. 

It’s almost a week into their resumed arrangement before Dorian realizes something is different in Bull’s room. Something different about the light, and the way the candle’s no longer gutter and flicker in a draft. And then he looks up and realizes that the gaping hole in the ceiling has been neatly patched. 

He squints at the mended hole for a minute. “Did you get that fixed.” He asks Bull. 

Silence for a moment, then Bull replies, “Yeah. Paid one of the workers to do it. Don’t worry, I planned it before we left for the Hinterlands. Happened while we were away.”

Dorian isn’t quite sure why he would care when Bull got his roof fixed, but nothing else is forthcoming from Bull. So he shrugs, and goes back to putting his clothes back on, so he can return to his own, cold bed.

Dorian has barely gotten settled back into this thing with Bull again, before Trevelyan and Bull and the Chargers leave for the Storm Coast to secure an alliance with the Qun. He fights the urge to mope at Bull’s departure, and instead joins Sera on the practice range. Sera is developing a wide variety of new grenades: improvements to the jar of bees, flasks of Antivan fire that burn on impact, a jar full of pitch, and she has learned to appreciate the help of a decent barrier when testing the radius and violence of their effects. 

She and Dorian test all the various grenades, then start practicing other maneuvers, culminating with Dorian rapidly throwing multiple grenades into the air to see what the effect of Sera hitting them with an arrow is. Which is how he finds himself standing and laughing, fire burning and crackling harmlessly over his barrier, watching Sera run covered in pitch, shrieking and cursing, from a swarm of bees and wasps that seem out for her blood. When the fire burns itself out, and Sera emerges, dripping wet, from the cover of the water trough that’s she’d thrown herself into, she’s laughing too. 

***

The return of Bull and the Chargers from the Storm Coast is a silent, subdued affair. Dorian’s made his way to the courtyard, doing a bad job of pretending he just happened to be there. The Chargers look battered but unharmed, but it’s the quiet bothers Dorian. Bull is silent when he dismounts, nods wordlessly to Trevelyan. The Chargers disperse silently too. Bull watches them go, and his eye lights on Dorian. There’s no grin of recognition, no happiness in his face, just Bull walking to his side slowly, face expressionless. 

Up close, Bull looks exhausted, and there’s trepidation in his voice, when he says, “Dorian. We should talk.”

Dorian nods, and follows Bull out of the courtyard, and up to a deserted section of Skyhold’s outer wall. Bull look tired, and bowed down, and he won’t look at Dorian, just leans his forearms against the parapet, staring out over the mountain landscape. He bows his head. Dorian stands beside him and waits, watching his face.

“Alliance is dead.” Bull says finally, in clipped tones. “Dreadnought burned.”

“You couldn’t hold the Venatori off?” Dorian asks, when no more is forthcoming.

“Could have. The Chargers would have been overrun. They could have held long enough to save the dreadnought.” Bull shuts his eye, exhales. His jaw works. “Trevelyan ordered me to have them retreat”

“That doesn’t sound like the Qun will be please with that outcome.” Dorian says

“Not even close.” He shakes his head. “Like I said: alliance is dead. And I’m cut loose. Tal-Vashoth.”

“I’m sorry Bull.” Dorian reaches to place a hand on Bull’s shoulder, but Bull jerks away, stands to his full height. Meets Dorian’s eyes for the first time since down in the courtyard. 

“Don’t.” Bull says sharply. “Stay away from me.” 

Dorian let’s his extended hand drop. He’s not sure what expression is on his face, but Bull’s face crumples. Bull turns his back to the stone work, and collapsing into a seated position, leaning against the battlement. 

“What a mess.” Bull voice is choked with emotion. “I just want you to stay safe. And I’m not safe, not without the Qun. It's just a matter of time before I lose control and hurt someone. I can’t let that someone to be you.”

Dorian looks at Bull. He looks lost and uncertain, in a way Dorian has never seen him look before. Dorian sighs, and takes a seat beside Bull. Leans his head back against the cold stone. 

“Please Dorian, I need you to listen. You can’t trust me. It’s only a matter of time before I snap.”

Dorian shrugs. “Oh I heard you. You’re terribly dangerous and so on. I’m more than capable of looking after myself, thank you. Let me tell you how it would go,” Dorian lifts his hand, lets flame dance up from his palm.” Lunge for your blind side, and go under your guard. You’ll be on fire before you know what hit you.” 

That startles a laugh out of Bull. “You’re quite something, you know that?”

“I’m well aware.” Dorian replies, lightly. Then more seriously, not quite daring to look at Bull. “If you don’t want me here just say so. I’ll go.” 

Dorian waits for an answer. And waits. Finally he darts a look at Bull, who meets his gaze but doesn’t say anything. Dorian listens to the deliberate silence for a bit longer, then nods. Shivers, because the stone of the walkway is freezing cold. Scoots himself closer, leans tentatively against Bull’s side. Bull goes rigid, but then stiffly puts an arm around him. Dorian relaxes into Bull, let’s the silence sit. After a while the Bull relaxes. Dorian listens to Bull breathe. 

“I couldn’t even make the choice.” Bull says finally. “At the end. The Chargers were going to be overrun, it was them or the dreadnought. Save them or betray the Qun. And I couldn’t even make the decision myself. I didn’t want them to die, but Trevelyan had to order me to sound the retreat. What does that even make me?”

“Of course, you didn’t want them to die.” Dorian says quietly. 

“I shouldn’t have hesitated.” Bull says, “If there wasn’t something wrong with me, I wouldn’t have ever betrayed the Qun, no matter what Trevelyan ordered. I’ve let myself slip and slip, without ever realizing it.”

Dorian sighs. “What sort of slip? Other than the terrible sin of not wanting to see your friends slaughtered before your eyes.”

“I want.” Bull says, “I want something I can’t have, and I can’t accept that things are as they are. And I have no orders anymore. I don’t know what I’m supposed to do.”

“Well. Let’s assume that the first order of business is to help stave off the end of the world.” Dorian suggests. “As for the rest: it’s not so terrible to want things for yourself. I’ve been doing it for years, and I haven’t snapped. You’ll get the hang of it.”

“That easy?”

“Well. Maybe try reaching for something you want for once. Instead of just telling yourself how terrible you are for wanting it. Someone told me once that sometimes you make hard decisions without knowing you’re making them. You hesitated over not sacrificing your friends. You listened to Trevelyan’s order to save them. Those don’t strike me as the instincts of someone who’s a terrible danger to everyone around them.”

They lapse into silence again, one less fraught, and more comfortable. When they finally stir, Dorian is stiff and clumsy from sitting on the cold stone. He primly shakes his robe back into order, and brushes himself off, looking for any signs of dirt or snow. When he finishes Bull is looking him at strangely. A little uncertain. Like he doesn’t quite know what you to do with himself.

Dorian gives him a smile, “Come on, I’m starving. And I refuse to be out in the cold any longer.” He extends his hand to Bull. Bull takes it, and they descend back down from the wall. 

***

The next day Bull visits the library. Dorian sets aside his research, looks up at Bull. Bull is hesitant, seats himself in a chair. Its too small for him, and looks faintly ridiculous in it, but his face is very serious. 

Bulls says strangely hesitant. “I wanted to thank you. For what you said. And I wanted to be sure you knew I didn’t mean it when I said I wanted you to stay away…”

Dorian takes in his careful expression, and laughs, “I had assumed that yes. Rest assured I am more than happy to continue with our relations unchanged…”

“No,” Bull interrupts a little sharply. 

Dorian blinks hurt and surprised. He hadn’t anticipated the rejection, and it hurts the worse for being unexpected.

“I want us to be friends again.” Bull says, “I’m sorry, I don’t think I can keep sleeping with you and pretending I don’t have feelings. I know its unwelcome, but I want to be friends Dorian, I miss you”

Dorian stares at Bull for a long moment, searches for something eloquent to say. Settles on “Unwelcome?”

The Bull shifts. The chair creaks alarmingly under his weight. “I know. I know things got awkward when I made my feelings clear, with the gift, and trying to get you to stay. And you don’t want that from me, and that’s fine. But I’d rather be friends than just people who fuck, and don’t speak otherwise. And you said I should act on what I want. That’s what I want.”

“You made your feelings clear. With the gift.” Dorian repeats, trying to catch up.

Bull gives him a concerned look. “The book. Sera said I should get you bees, but I’m pretty sure she was lying about that that being a traditional courting gift.”

“No bees.” Dorian agrees dazedly “they make a terrible gift.”

Bull furrows his brow. 

“Right. Bees aren’t the point. Can we go back to the part where you have feelings for me? Romantic feelings?” Distantly Dorian realizes his voice is getting a little shrill. “Qunari don’t. Have those sorts of feelings.”

Bull winces. “I told you I was slipping. Had been slipping for a long time.” Pauses. “Wait you didn’t know? You told me to back off.”

Dorian puts his head in his hands and starts to laugh. “Maker. I told you that because I couldn’t’ stand these glimpses of what I couldn’t have.”

Bull stares at him. “Was I doing it wrong? The courting? I thought it was me you didn’t want.”

Dorian shakes his head, “It hadn’t even occurred to me that was something I could have. I thought I was in love with someone who couldn’t love me back” Looks up to where Bull is sitting looking very uncertain, but staring at him with something like hope.

“But if you could have it?” Bull asks, nervously.

Dorian stands from his chair. Goes and puts his arms around Bull’s neck, leans in and kisses him, softly. “I’d like that very much.” Dorian says. Then adds because he’s feeling brave: “I’d love that, Amatus.”


End file.
